A Rose by Any Other Adage
by LilyBound
Summary: Rosalie-Centric story. Currently: "I think I've finally found the answer: death is sexist."
1. An Introduction

If Edward couldn't read minds, I think I would repress these thoughts and keep lying to myself—or maybe not. If beauty is my first trait, then honesty would be my second. After all, I doubt Esme is facing this jealousy as I isn't, even if I can't read minds like my brother, I know our mother wouldn't be dying of envy; her attribute is love—jealousy has no place in her heart. Me on the other hand, all you have to do is take the _r _from "pretty" and you get "petty." I don't think any other another witticism (though this really isn't a witticism) suits me better. Well, maybe simply "pretty" is a bit of a stretch, so I'll try to find something else.


	2. Death is Sexist: A Simple Phone Call

"_Death, that hath suck'd the honey of thy breath  
>Hath had no power yet upon thy beauty."<em>

_- William Shakespeare, _Romeo and Juliet_, 5.3_

So maybe it's not quite as the author meant it, but really, it could apply. (Who cares for convention anyways? I left that back with my naivety and virginity back in 1933.) Shakespeare could have written that line for me; death which has taken so much from me has only enhanced my beauty. I've wondered why, every now and again, but I think I've finally found the answer: death is sexist.

Those three words (and all they imply) have been torturing me since Bella called me.

Can you imagine? I can remember perfectly—perfect recall, both a tremendous blessing and a terrible curse.

That rainy afternoon I was toiling—well, that's not quite the right word, I admit I was enjoying myself—over the Mercedes Guardian Edward had borrowed for Bella. It wouldn't do to return the car in less than the perfect condition it had come to us in and Bella doesn't quite understand how to treat a work of art. Why would she feel the need to torture this beauty so? If I wasn't the one tasked with re-tuning the engine, I would have been amused (though not necessarily surprised) at the havoc my newest sister could wreak on the delicate tunings of such an amazing car. The quiet clinks of metal against my diamond fingers rang softly through the garage, emphasizing the peaceful, graceful aspect of my work. In the background there was the soft drumming of rain against our house. I don't like to hear the rain when I work-to be fair, I don't like to hear anything when I work. The absence of sound makes things easier when I wanted to concentrate. Unfortunately, my hearing, so attuned to even the slightest sounds as they are, were very sensitive. I probably had the best hearing in the family. It was all for a good reason though: cars were instruments and I was a master tuner. I needed my hearing to distinguish the minute differences between the sounds cars make. That's why I had the garage sound-proofed. Is a satisfactory working area too much to ask? I think not.

So _why _is someone calling me? Or better yet, why is _Edward _calling _me_?

It could only be him—the other members of my family were in the house on the other side of my sound-proof door. Only he would use the phone.

But he was on his honeymoon with Bella. Bella and I weren't on the best of terms. Honestly, Edward and I weren't on the best of terms right now. I don't blame him though—how do you reconcile with the person who told you the love of your existence had jumped off a cliff and died, which lead to your suicide trip to Italy, which in turn lead to said love traveling there with our mutual sister, risking death to rescue you? It's not the type of thing forgotten easily, even without perfect recall.

These thoughts few through my mind quickly—it couldn't have been more than a second between when the phone rang and I had it to my ear.

"Hello?" I asked uncertainly—and my voice still came out like music.

"Rosalie?" There was a raspy whisper on the other end—a female raspy whisper. "It's Bella." Like I hadn't already figured out who it was already. "Please. You have to help me."

I wasn't quite sure what to say. This was the first time she's ever called me. It's not that she dislikes me. She doesn't blame me for anything—not my dislike, not my mistake, not my vote, not my attempt to live vicariously. She's just not that type of person; she's not the type to hold a grudge. I should at least grant her this. After a half second of debate—in which I toyed with a few different responses, I settled for a simple, "What's wrong?"

"Edward doesn't want him." _Him? _"He's talked to Carlisle—they're going to kill him." Her voice was frantic now—like she was on the verge of tears. But there was one question—_him who? _Who was she so desperate to save? Who was her voice breaking for?

"Who are you talking about?" I'm sure my voice was still musical, but it was slightly tenser now. Who was Edward and Carlisle trying to kill? Carlisle killing wasn't common. Something was definitely wrong. Though there was already something inherently wrong here: Bella was calling me on Edward's phone.

"My little nudger. Rosalie, I'm pregnant." Suddenly, I was a statue. Vampires were stone: unmoving, unchanging, unyielding, forever frozen time. This, though, was different. This wasn't just the difference between the absence of movement and the presence of movement; this was the difference between Bella and me. We were polar opposites. There was nothing in the world that could highlight this situation more than the next words flowing through the speaker. "Help me Rosalie, don't let them kill him!" The last part was a whispered sob—a desperate plea. The weak begging the strong. The human begging the vampire. The mortal begging the immortal. The fertile begging the sterile.

She was pregnant; I could never be.

Envy was the only thing I could feel for a second, crashing down on me like a gargantuan wave. This juggernaut of jealousy filled every part of me. It had complete control, complete dominance. I was in the process of drowning in this ocean, but then my maternal instincts kicked in.

I had wanted a child for so long, but I didn't think I actually had any maternal instincts—I thought they had died a long time ago. There was the desire for children, yes, but there wasn't the instinct for motherhood I'd observed in Esme's behavior over the years. I had always thought that part of me was burned away along with my possibilities. This sudden onslaught was almost dizzying in its magnitude. It was to my envy as what I had thought of my envy: overwhelming, overpowering, dominating, and absolute.

"Don't worry Bella—I'll protect you." My voice rang with my conviction.

I remember Edward vehemently denouncing murdering Bella. How long ago that seemed, now I was plotting to defend my new sister-in-law and her "little nudger"—wait, how could the child already be so far along?—from Edward himself. It wasn't exactly a role reversal, but it was pretty close, probably as close as it would ever get.

I heard his approaching footsteps before she did—even though I was the one half a world away. "Give Edward the phone," I instructed Bella in an authoritative tone. She did. I let loose a low, threatening hiss—something Bella couldn't hear. "Take care of her on the way back," I snapped at him. I barely waited for his "I will," before pressing the end button. I tried to make sure his dead, empty tone didn't awake any guilt in me-the last time he'd sounded like that, I had told him Bella had committed suicide.

I had to find Carlisle.


End file.
